


how near you stand to me

by thirtycenturyman



Category: Withnail & I (1986)
Genre: M/M, by all means don't take this seriously, conclusion this is crack, i tried writing it from marwood's perspective please validate me, is this crack????
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:01:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23069632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirtycenturyman/pseuds/thirtycenturyman
Summary: gonna be honest with u chief it's just marwood being too horny to function, no summary needed
Relationships: Peter Marwood/Withnail
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	how near you stand to me

**Author's Note:**

> the title is taken from 'hand in glove' by the smiths!

* * *

Protruding was Withnail to my own thigh, and I vaguely sensed him stifling down some kind of noise. No surprise there - I found myself keeping any direct contact at bay and by God did he notice. Out of a relentless need for development and, well, just too see what would happen, my knee met his groin and he convulsed against the wall with a marveled yelp. I'd previously assumed that his almost certain inebriation would dull his sensitivities but clearly he hadn't the means to refrain. To be fully truthful I'd never imagined Withnail to be the type of man who would give in to such a small, damning touch and not attempt to mask it with retaliation of his own, as not to ponder it for too long; if anything it seemed as though he embraced the whole sensation with open arms.

A burst of assuredness took over my hand and I scruffily opened the lowest button of his tweed cloak. Trespassing the shirt bundled into his marginally oversized slacks, I brushed my fingers against his underwear. Not an erogenous part of the damned thing either, just the elastic clinging to his waist. I caught myself looking dead into Withnail's eyes as my palm scarcely cupped his dick. The moment was short lived, however, as he meekly swatted my hand away. Compliantly I withdrew, feeling shunned and disgusted with myself. Preparing myself to apologise, Withnail pressed his lips to mine, the lingering taste of whiskey and quite possibly cannabis knocking my tastebuds unconscious. He then docked his mouth in my hair and sighed languidly. He mumbled against my curls, his words incoherent.

"Hm?" I asked absentmindedly.

Withnail pulled away from the nest and looked at me again. "I need a smoke."

No. No, not now. He can't leave me like this, we were making such progress! Does tension have no meaning to him?

I stumbled and followed his steps into the living room, my head pulsing with disbelief.

"Excuse me?"

That did it.

Coat flailing aside as though he were caught in the wind, he snapped at me.

"Did I stutter, man? I need a fucking rollup. A joint, a spliff, a fag, something to bloody well manhandle and stick in my mouth or so God help me."

Out of the sheer frustration the bastard had subjected me to, plummeting into the sofa seemed a suitable show of defeat. I watched with sorrow as he fumbled around the drawers for something, anything to smoke; and I felt his desperation. Oh, I felt it very deeply. It was physically unable to be ignored so I naturally took matters into my own hands. While having not but a clue as to whether it was by my own impulses or some hardy demon, and albeit still clothed I reached for my cock. How soothing a touch it was! Withnail hadn't a clue what he was missing out on. That is, until he spun around and caught me right in the act of palming myself.

"You must understand, Withnail," I offered in an accordingly relaxed tone. "If there is a solution to my problems I take it on upfront." 

"Oh no, I completely understand," he replied in a way that got me thinking he'd completely disregarded his pursuit. "Don't we all?"

He gradually came nearer in my sight until he stood like a tower over me. Upon his approach my trousers were undone and sunken down to my ankles. The tweed Withnail adorned himself in smelt of enough weed and nicotinic products that you'd assume he dealt the stuff. The ceiling light that was previously obstructed by his figure came back into view for reasons that can only be described as Withnail lowering himself to my level. Proclivitive anticipation rose once more as I realised what he was pulling. 

"Bugger." It was unwittingly the only sentiment I could muster at the moment. Withnail laughed maniacally for a second - interrupted by the abrupt silence that fell as I yanked the bastard's head forward into my gaze, my stare into his eyes intense. "Touch me, Withnail. You knew what you were doing back there. You knew it well. You know I have something for you to manhandle and take into your mouth or so God help you; so let me help you." 

I feared at that moment that I made my provocations too obvious for my own good, and had left Withnail thinking, _'Oh God - I really ought to move out. I can't imagine what I was thinking, lodging with a tosser of this inclination? Lunacy.'_

However, all doubts were to be taken care of as Withnail knelt down between my legs and uncharacteristically coyly took the base of my cock in hand. Nearly unbearable was the sensation. There was no way of telling whether he or I quivered at higher a frequency than the other.

"Good grief," I mustered under shaky breaths. 

Despite him having an attitude that was veiled mockery if anything just a minute or two prior, his eyes met mine in a truly genuine manner, matching the polyphony of our mingling breaths in the empty silence of a dawning Saturday. Not that it was what I focused on at that moment. 

All I'd expected was a quick one, just to pass the time. Just a handjob we could get over and done with and then carry on with our lives as usual without ever discussing it and eventually end up taking to our adjacent graves - let's face it, he'd sooner be cremated and stuck in a jar on Danny's mantelpiece than buried fewer than 10 feet away from me.

But he took a route I wasn't too familiar with. The shift from inertia to momentum was effective immediate; in simpler terms, Withnail's tongue had more skill outside of speaking than I'd ever thought possible. 

The Peter Marwood familiar to the average man wouldn't be caught dead with his knob on the tongue of anybody. Particularly not this anybody. The average man would be proven sorely mistaken. 

Noises that would've been were kept down by instinct. "Good God," I reckoned that must have been what I said. Not that Withnail would take note, since the blaspheming was obscured by my hand over my mouth. He didn't need to do it rigidly, or like a whore looking to gather a few extra pennies. It just had to be him doing it. My hand found a place in his dark curls. Appropriately tart, I grimly noticed, after all these years of it looking nearly contaminated. 

His mouth felt magnificent, unlike anything I'd experienced before then. As if the sensation itself wasn't enough to cause my face to be painted by a furious blush the idea of us engaging in such a deviant act ignited a new kind of arousal. Why refrain from giving back? While he moved his mouth up, down and around my stationary and idle cock I took initiative. Light thrusts took over my hips. Slow and delicate and damningly seeking the approval of Withnail. His low, chesty groan was enough to ease living up to the expectation. 

I'd wanked enough to know when I'd be coming - or as was presumed. Somewhere in the range of twenty seconds to three minutes if we carried on the good way. I had nearly forgotten about the presence of his palm on the base, and seemed to be far too wrapped up in the thoughts of how this ever came to be and the thought of the act itself. Perhaps this was the level of Withnail's expertise that he hadn't the balls to discuss at length with anybody besides a ketamine dealer, or a packet of K itself depending on his state of mind. Perhaps he'd blown enough to know when I'd be coming. 

An unintentionally guttural yelp snapped me back into reality. The bastard took my prick not only into his mouth but was making good use of his hand too. 

" _God_ , that's fucking wonderful." My forearm manoeuvred itself over my eyes and impulsively I rolled my hips with much more vigour than I knew I was capable of.

Yes, I was fucking my flatmate's mouth, and no, I never imagined it would happen. Albeit a moment of torture for the base of my dick, Withnail moved both of his hands over to my hips and pinned them to the sofa whilst increasing his own speed. Soon it became too unbearable. 

"Shit, Withnail, take it out," he complied and in a purposefully tedious manner he let go of my cock with a humiliating sound. 

"Your hand or mine? Ah, fuck it, I needn't ask," he began stroking me from the very bottom. Within seconds my panting was cut off by an intense coda of repeated "God"s - and one mention of Withnail which wasn't subtle in the least. 

I could only conjure a mortifying depiction of my current state in my head. Worn out, limp, gasping and seeing white. After I regained my fractured dignity and registry of senses, I heard the front door open. "Where are you off to? You've still got a hard-on, haven't you?" 

A voice called out, "That and a dreadful hankering for some cigarettes. You can deal with me when I get back." 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for tuning in to today's episode of the homosexual ventures of peter marwood!


End file.
